“Whass ya doin now, Mommy?” I asked as she scurried around with enthusiasm.
“I tink I got nough rags ta hook a mat, Josie.” she said, pulling out a bag from under her bed.
With amazing skill, using a piece of line and a huge needle, Mommy attached the burlap bag to the wooden frame Daddy had made for her. Once the burlap was sewn into place, she drew a pattern on it. It could be flowers or a winter scene or something around our cabin. She tore the rags into long, thin strips, keeping the colours separated. When she was ready, she placed a piece at a time underneath the burlap. She pushed the hook through the top, hooked the string up through the tiny burlap hole, making a neat loop, then poked it down for the next loop, and so on, until the whole pattern was filled out. Mommy finished the mat with a colourful border.
I didn’t know then that our mother was exceptionally talented in her work, and I don’t think that she was aware of it, either, especially in the earlier years of her marriage when we were all babies and so very needy. I wonder how she learned everything. I don’t know if anybody taught her, whether she had to learn as she went along, or if she learned out of the sheer necessity to survive. I know that she made good use of the rifle and the sewing machine Daddy had given her on their wedding day. It was all she really needed to keep us warm and fed.
My mother did the best she could under dire circumstances. Many times I watched as she rubbed her hand over her head, smoothed the straggled hair that had fallen around her face, and just kept on going. In later years she sewed every day for the mission store. Once her order was finished, she had to deliver it back over to the mission. Mrs. Keddie, who ran the store, was extremely pleased with Mommy’s work, and the store continued to sell it until my mother’s death in 1997. After Daddy died in 1967 at age 50, Mommy was left with seven children to raise on her own. She did this with money she earned from sewing and cleaning, and I never heard her complain. Being pregnant, giving birth to 14 children, and trying to keep them alive must at times have pushed her beyond all physical and mental endurance. She lost four babies in infancy. The pain from that alone is incomprehensible. Still, she did it. She raised 10 of us to adulthood, and we are a wonderfully warm and caring family today.
Mommy mothered us the best way she knew how, and I’m so proud of her accomplishments today. I only hope, as my story unfolds, that I can bring her the justice she so rightly deserves.
While walking down Water Street in Halifax, Nova Scotia, some 40 years later, I walked into a store and saw several exquisite pairs of duffle slippers on display. I lifted the tab of authenticity and was absolutely thrilled and overwhelmed to see written on the tag: made by flossie curl.
The Labrador fur trade started legally around the middle of October, but the actual beginning of the season was variable. It took time for the animals to grow their winter coats. Therefore trappers waited until later in the fall when thicker furs brought better prices. From year to year the success of the fur trade varied. The quantity of fur-bearing animals always ran in cycles. Some years were extremely good, while others were very poor, so there was constant concern for the survival of our people. Weather played a major part in the success of the season and the quality of the furs. The distance and frequency that the trapper was able to attend to his traps were always factors. So, too, was knowing the right place to set the traps.
The local custom was never to set foot on another trapper’s territory. Many trapping grounds were kept in the family for a century or more and were passed down from generation to generation. A trapping ground was never intentionally infringed upon by another trapper. The closest trading post was many miles away. The nearest one to Roaches Brook was Cartwright, which was 60 miles distant. The forest brought everything we needed to sustain us for the winter — wood for heat, animals for food, and fur to trade for clothing and essential items.
Leg-hold traps were the only type in existence at the time. The different sizes were geared to the size of the animal. The bigger traps were used for lynx, beaver, wolf, and fox, while little ones were for mink, martin, weasel, and squirrel. Aside from trapping for the fur trade, it was crucial to go hunting each fall for edible animals. Gaming licences and permits weren’t required in the 1940s and 1950s. There were no laws or law-enforcement officers to be seen. People were free to hunt at will.
Some hunting memories are very clear. I was skipping up the path toward our Spotted Island cabin one day when I heard Sammy yelling. “Der’s a walrus in de boat! De men gotta walrus! Boy, oh, boy, tis some big, too!”
“Whass a walrus, Marcie?” I asked.
“Dunno, maid,” she answered.
I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me down to the stage to see what the commotion was about. It was the biggest thing I’d ever seen!
“Whass dem big white tings stickin outta his mouth?” I asked, fascinated by two long curved white bones bigger than my body.
“Der tusks!” Sammy hollered.
I thought my big brother knew everything. I didn’t understand tusks, so I shut up and marvelled at the scene in front of me.
It took all the men in the community to haul the gigantic carcass up onto the beach. As always, when they were needed, every able-bodied man was there to help. The carcass was carved up, and the blubber was set aside for the dogs. The remaining meat was shared with the whole village. The walrus provided a lot of meat, and it left a big mess on the beach.
My memories of Roaches Brook are equally clear. I adored my father and followed him around whenever possible.
“Whass ya doin now, Daddy?” I asked as he limped around the porch and reached for a wooden box and a tin can high on a shelf.
“I’m cleanin me guns now, Jimmy. I’m goin huntin tomarra marnin.”
“Whass dat fer?” I asked, pointing at the tightly lidded can.
“Gunpowder. An tis not fer ya ta touch if ya wanna keep yer head on yer shoulders.”
“Why? What’ll happen ta me head?”
“Never min why, Jimmy. Jus don’t ever touch it.”
A hunting trip was a major undertaking, especially if the men went inland for several days to search for bear and caribou. Those trips were usually made in the winter or early spring around March and April and involved several hunters. Each hunter borrowed extra dogs from other men in the community to be sure they could transport their game back.
Hunting for small game such as partridge, porcupine, and rabbit was almost a daily event. In the fall it was mainly seabirds and seals that the hunters brought home. Daddy would return with lots of birds. Turrs (murres), geese, and ducks were the most plentiful.
The next job was to pick (pluck) and clean them. Mommy had her work cut out for her again. To pluck dozens of birds she had to get the stove hot. Once the stove was hot enough, she hauled her sleeves up, straightened her pinny, slicked back her hair, and got to work. With her left hand she held the wings and neck while her right hand kept a firm grip on the feet and tail feathers. This grip exposed the full breast area. I watched as she dipped the bird into a large pan of water and then rubbed it across the hot stove in a fast, vigorous motion. Water bubbles danced across the stove. The steam penetrated the feathers and scalded the skin of the bird, which allowed the feathers to be plucked more easily. Mommy was fast and could pick a bird in a few minutes.
The smell of scalding skin and scorching feathers was nauseating. “Pooh, dat stinks, Mommy,” I grumbled.
“Yeh, Josie, it do stink. But dey’ll taste good on yer supper plate, won dey?”
“Oh, yeh, Mommy. Can hardly wait.”
In late October winter set in quickly. The damp frost that started in late August was thick on the ground and clung to everything. By December